The Writer's Garage

I confirmed last night that I'll be reading/performing my poetry/spoken word at diPiazza's Lava Lounge on August 15. It will be part of The Writer's Garage, which is a weekly series run by Mike Martt. diPiazza's is located in Long Beach and is a great place to see local writers and bands perform. diPiazza's Web site is www.dipiazzas.com. Info on The Writer's Garage can be found at www.myspace.com/thewritersgarage.


There are 550 days remaining in Bush's presidency.

An Impostor

There appears to be an impostor in our midst—and he goes by the name of Scott Siders. A friend of mine Googled me the other day, and had some disturbing information to report. Following my Web site (www.scottsiders.com) as the number one hit for “scott siders,” there is a listing for Scott Siders on linkedin.com (his LinkedIn Web address is www.linkedin.com/in/scottsiders). Coincidentally, I am also a LinkedIn member (although I haven’t put it to use yet). However, although we have one thing in common—that we both graduated from the University of Colorado at Boulder—this Scott Siders is not me. There are, of course, no doubt hundreds of jackasses like me across the globe who share the name Scott Siders, but I want to make it crystal clear that the gentleman with my name in the number two position when you Google my name is not me.

Why have I gone to the trouble to make this distinction? Well, to be blunt, I in no way share the belief system of this impostor. I won’t go into details, but suffice to say that I do not want to be confused with a man of his particular religious affiliation and, further, what one can only logically assume are his oppressive political views. Needless to say, I do not work for his company, Wisdom Consulting Corporation International. You may think I’m ridiculous to have posted this, but I felt that I needed to state that, while we share the name and alma mater, that’s all we share (except, of course, that we are both mammals and undoubtedly enjoy reading, movies, and the beach—to say nothing of watching movies of people reading at the beach).

To be sure, I am quite positive that he wouldn’t want to be confused with me either. Who would?! Oh, and get this: For some reason, he continues to refuse to change his name in spite of numerous cease and desist orders. Can you imagine that?

There are 553 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

Norm and the Lave Lounge

We had the opportunity to see Norm MacDonald perform last weekend at the Irvine Improv. He’s a hilarious and filthy bastard, but you already know that unless you’ve been living under a bridge for the past 10 years. I highly recommend seeing him live if you haven’t already. I’m not sure if he does much stand-up anymore—or maybe he’s performing more than ever now that he’s not working on any TV shows. Either way, check him out. You won’t be disappointed.

I recently spoke with the founder and organizer of The Writer’s Garage, which takes place every Wednesday night at diPiazza’s Lave Lounge in Long Beach. It sounds like I’m getting on the schedule to read/perform in August. It’s a great little bar/venue, and The Writer’s Garage is always a good time. It usually starts with a writer of poetry, spoken word, or prose reading/performing, and then is followed by a local or touring band. Now that my double CD et cetera et cetera is nearly complete (it’s looking like it will be released in late July or early August at the latest), I’ve been looking for places to perform and promote it.

I actually haven’t given a reading since the release of The Armpit of Desire in November 2005, so I’m a little rusty, to say the least. Aside from that one reading, I haven’t performed on a regular basis since 404 Not Found broke up in the spring of 2004. I plan on hitting OC coffee shops and any other venues to promote et cetera et cetera beginning in July so, if you’re reading this and you’re in the area, come and check me out. I’ll be updating this blog with actual places, dates, and times, including diPiazza’s, in the coming weeks and months. More on et cetera et cetera will follow as the release date draws near. You can check out the cover art at www.myspace.com/scottsiders. You’ll be able to listen to a few tracks on that page as soon as they’re ready.

In the meantime, I’m also updating and redesigning my Web site, www.scottsiders.com, in anticipation of the release of et cetera et cetera. Check back soon for more updates.

There are 569 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

Nihilism

Nihilism is dead to me.

There are 577 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

almost though not quite

in the waiting room before the abyss we take a number there is a person of indeterminate sex bellowing the rules of the place the Concierge of Quit the Gatekeeper of Gravity the Facilitator of Fate the room is white save a child’s finger painting of his future lover done 100% in red the other waiters are shoulder to shoulder ear to ear pale no matter the skin ready no matter the ride when it speaks it is suddenly a man always has been a man always fierce about his manhood angry i implied otherwise it is obvious even to old women in bifocals now he has a face like a condemned building a full-mouth grin like bulleted windows a handlebar mustache ears like plantains hair like wild crooked antennas searching for a signal there is something amiss with his waist he is a man almost though not quite he has the key to unlock abyss he has better job security than you that’s for sure he is bored calling out names he can pronounce perfectly with the correct accent we are all impressed not nervous not impetuous anymore not waiting not trying to get a better view a better spot in line he parts his ethereal gut to reveal eternity we are not impressed he is not surprised it is too much it is too complicated it is too difficult to tell what goes where or where goes what he closes his gut holds up the key grins pokes it in the lock the door opens like it was trying to all along he calls names we cross arms hug hearts almost though not quite step through the doorway ease back grin take another number think how close everything is to getting big getting small it’s all semantics how enormous everything is how forgotten how fast how impossible it is to walk through how we must be better than him how did he get this job how even the guy with the speech impediment chewing bubblegum like it’s a competition could do the job better than him how we might think our way out of this how we should have done what we pretend to do better to make the hardest only harder the harder only hard when we have nothing left we have style almost though not quite

There are 584 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

God's Acre and a Bag of Noise

Other than the freakshow at diPiazzas on Wednesday night, this was a solidly boring week. diPiazzas has what they call “The Writer’s Garage” every Wednesday night, so it’s a place we’ve been known to go for poetry/spoken word and to see a singer songwriter/random band. I like the juxtaposition of “acts” there, and the fact that anything goes—as long as you’re interesting. I plan on performing there at some point this summer, so I hope I’m interesting. Anyhow, the poet of the evening, Chris Davidson, seemed like a great guy and I dug the fact that he was self-deprecating, but his work wasn’t very good—according to me (my opinion is the only one that matters here, so you’ll have to take my word for it).

He was followed by—I kid you not—a rockin’ high school band. Right before they went on, the bar all of a sudden filled with dozens of teenagers—as if letting in a swarm of curious and hapless wasps—making the bar far more interesting and, at the same time, far more frightening. The band was called “Bagg of Noize.” Yes, folks, that’s the spelling. I can’t think of a worse band name at the moment. Wait, how about, “We Need to Practice.” Ouch. That’s not entirely fair. These guys were good for teenagers. Hell, I still can’t play the guitar.

But what I really wanted to talk about was the main guy—we’ll call him Randy. Let me start by saying that Randy is, or will be, dangerous. Randy is all of about 5’9” and 140 pounds soaking wet and holding a hot iron. He went on stage wearing a 1970s red hair ‘fro wig, black sunglasses, black cowboy boots (yes, I said cowboy boots), and a fake leather coat. He had a great voice, but he scared the shit out of me. There was just something about him. Part of it might have been that he already has a little cult following. The main thing, I think, is that I smell sociopath all over this guy. If things ever get weird again (again?), he may very well be the next Charlie Manson—wielding power through mind control, but never technically doing anything. Okay, so that may be a bit of hyperbole, but what can I say? The kid has talent, but he creeps me out. All I’m saying is that his phone calls are probably being tapped in Bush’s illegal and unconstitutional wiretap “program.”

My thoughts for the evening were: “Even I taste better with ranch,” and “Teenagers make me anxious.”

Anyhow, below is the second (short) short story that was published by commonties.com. I hardly ever write short fiction anymore, so it seems strange to have had two (short) short stories published fairly recently. In addition to “Going All the Way” (reprinted in previous post), “God’s Acre” is the only other story I’ve even submitted to any publication over the past several years. As a matter of fact, I can’t remember the last time, nor the last story, that I submitted. Perhaps commonties.com was shooting heroin when they made their decision. Can you believe they pay me for this shit?

God’s Acre

It happened during that brief moment in autumn after the leaves have changed, but before they’ve completely given in to the fall of the season. On Sundays, after church, after everyone left for lunch, we’d play soccer in the old graveyard—what grandma called God’s acre.

It wasn’t really soccer, but that’s the kind of ball we used. The game was simple: Kick the ball at gravestones as hard as you can. Every ricochet was worth one point—unless it hit the stone at the far end of the yard. That one was worth ten points, but it might as well have been a thousand.

We stayed as far away from it as we could. It was an odd stone, so weathered it looked like the first rock on earth. It was shaped like an old arrowhead and had a single word on its face, a name, barely readable: ALLEN.

Some of the people in town were positive it was a first name, while others swore it was a last. One thing was for certain: It was the only grave in the yard that wasn’t recorded in the town’s registry of the dead.

Different stories went around about what lay beneath that stone. Some said it was a slave’s resting place. Others were sure the old bones belonged to an explorer who got stuck in the wilds of winter. Still others insisted it was the remains of a witch. Whoever he or she was, most agreed the stone was haunted.

It’s the sort of thing that happens in the quick conversations of small towns: The unexplained is explained by one of a number of stories passed on from father to son, brother to brother, friend to friend, and so on—the cycle repeating for generations.

Regardless of the various tales surrounding it, everyone believed it was the first grave ever dug in town—that the church and its graveyard grew up around it. In the beginning they used the stone as a kind of marker, burying the dead line by line, vertical and horizontal from it.

For us, the strangest thing about the grave was that it was the first place we’d go looking for Uncle Charlie. Uncle Charlie was the kind of drunk that takes years to perfect. He was good at it. He’d go to ALLEN late at night, after all of the bars had closed or thrown him out. He’d sit next to that old stone and swallow down whatever was left of his bottle.

When the bottle was empty, Uncle Charlie would howl—a sound that found its pitch in the mangled holler of a man gone wild or the desperate scream of a woman. What didn’t make any sense was that Uncle Charlie never remembered going to that grave. His story was always the same: “When I left the pub, I was headed home.”

After a few years the word got out. They gave him a nickname: “Crazy Old Charlie.” He was still just Uncle Charlie to us. I wasn’t embarrassed. Neither was my brother. If anything, we were proud our uncle had the courage to be alone with ALLEN.

We hadn’t been out to the cemetery for Uncle Charlie in years. He rarely left his house after the stroke. The night it happened we picked up a 12-pack and headed off to our favorite spot to drink: ALLEN. Uncle Charlie, in his own way, had everything to do with that. It just fit. The odor of alcohol lingered there like the smell of perfume cloaking a funeral parlor.

We never got the chance to crack open a single beer that night. We only got as far as the cherry tree. That’s where we found him, flat on his back, arms outstretched. First my brother, then I, leaned over the broken body of the man.

It was nothing like we’d ever seen or even imagined. It was barely real. If it wasn’t for the blood pooled around his neck and that empty stare, I might have believed he was a fallen angel. It struck me that maybe angels lose their way, too, and wind up inexplicably in graveyards.

The man was a stranger to us. We were sure of that. At first we thought it might be Uncle Charlie, that he had made his way to the graveyard to visit and drink with ALLEN one more time before they actually met in what grandma called The Great Beyond.

But it wasn’t him. We knew right away. The man didn’t have a bottle in his hand, he wasn’t wearing suspenders, and he didn’t have the scar Uncle Charlie earned (and proudly displayed) in a bar fight several years before my brother and I were born.

The lifeless body under the cherry tree had a full head of straight blonde hair, and a belly flatter than Uncle Charlie’s ever was—even as a kid. He wore torn jeans and what was once a white T-shirt. A few leaves had fallen and stuck to him.

We stared and said nothing for what seemed like an hour. A cool breeze blew from the west. Thunder cracked and the sky opened. Our gaze was taken by a streak of lightning, and then my brother’s wide eyes found mine. The rain came slowly at first, and then in waves, as we gripped the fat of our hands around his ankles and dragged him to the far edge of God’s acre.

There are 591 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

The IBS Guy

We went to a little coffee shop in Orange for a poetry open mic this Wednesday. It was just like ten thousand other open mics, except for one critical and hilarious thing: The IBS Guy. The first dude that read (we’ll call him Henry) walked up to the podium and engaged the crowd in a few pleasantries. So far so good. Then, just before beginning one of his two pieces, he gently tapped his right hand on the center of his chest, took a pronounced gulp, and announced nonchalantly, “I’m gassy”—to which the crowd laughed uneasily in what was a mixture of embarrassment and bewilderment. But that was just the beginning. Henry paused and, completely unashamed and without a sense of sarcasm or ironic bravado (I love him for this), said, “I’m like Spiderman . . . except, my superpower isn’t, you know, a web . . . mine’s like . . . IBS.”

I was howling. It’s the best thing I’ve ever heard at a poetry reading that was “non-scripted.” For those of you who may not know—making Henry’s little introduction even more confusing than it actually was—IBS is an acronym for irritable bowel syndrome. Another name for IBS is “spastic colon.” Enough said.

In honor of the occasion, and dedicated to Henry, I thought I would print the words to my spoken word piece “Spastic Colon,” which appeared on the 404 Not Found CD Nightmare Lullaby. As with many of my spoken word pieces, it does not lend itself well to the page, so you can listen to it here: http://www.geocities.com/sssiders/words_page.html.

Spastic Colon

Richard

a very white

well-dressed

corporate man

walks down main street

past meter maids & street sweepers

& opens the door to Flamingo Joe’s

flower shop

It’s Valentine’s Day

Standing there

peering at roses

he focuses on the stems

the thorns there

He pricks his finger on several of them

& when he fails to draw blood

thinks

these won’t do

Then out comes Joe with a fresh batch

tall & erect

obviously just plucked from the earth

their red lips pressed tightly together

Our man Richard finds the perfect dozen

every stem drawing blood

& as he jerks them from the bucket

he notices a small trembling

a sharp discomfort in his stomach

Having reached its destination

the meatball sandwich he ate at lunch

is fighting it out with the rum and cokes

he washed it down with

He quickly makes his way to the counter

hands over his credit card

& waits

the trembling

now

most certainly

a rumbling

Regardless of this development

our man Richard stands almost patiently at the counter

signs the paper

& walks out with the roses

he’s purchased for his wife

or his girlfriend

his wife

or girlfriend

He hasn’t decided exactly

but probably they’re for the wife

Up the street

next stop

jewelry

a more difficult situation

The options are overwhelming like

the gurgling in his stomach is overwhelming

Inside the glass

everything is glitter

The counter is packed with men shifting for position

Our man Richard

no stranger to the game

maneuvers his way to the front

the jewels laid out on display

like newborn children

A diamond is a girlfriend’s best friend

& Richard wastes no time pointing out

the necklace he wants

A ring would be too difficult

& besides

his body is ALL SYSTEMS GO

his bowels getting the green light

He’s sweating

pausing a moment to hold back disaster

his cheeks squeezed together and he’s

wiping sweat from his brow

Our man keeps his cool

says Boy, you guys got ‘em packed in here today, huh?

the man nods

wraps up the necklace

& Richard abruptly hands the credit card over

& out into the early evening he goes

his sphincter working harder than

a one-legged mule in an ass-kicking contest

Our man gingerly situates himself in his Lexus

drives from the curb

ever so slowly

mingles with traffic

ever so easily

& then the light changes yellow

The guy in the Chevy slams the brakes

& Richard stops just inches from the bumper

He’s shouting

Go

Motherfucker

Go!

& in all the excitement Richard’s sphincter eases its grip

& a minor explosion stings him to the seat

The next ten minutes are a blur

Richard races home

the war inside him

battling steadily on

the whole way

the radioman wishing everyone

a happy Valentine’s Day

Finally home

our man grabs the flowers

stuffs the necklace in his overcoat

& with his legs

sprung at the knees like a cowboy’s

he ventures towards the house with roses outstretched

As he crosses the threshold of the house

however

our man’s spastic colon erupts

from its rigid

road-sign sphincter

into the mutability of the off-road

underwear world

The wife greets him at the door with wine & a smile

At the sight of her he lets go the roses

the thorns shredding his hands

His terrified face says it all

She screams and spills the wine

Our man

frozen in February

his mouth is speechless

open

Richard’s already spoken

His face says it all

There are 605 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

Going All the Way

Jerry Falwell died this week. It’s not right to cheer at the news of somebody’s death (is it? Never? Never ever?). He epitomized the pervasive hypocrisy of the so-called religious right, preaching intolerance every waking day. Oh well, I suppose we all have to have our enemies.

In closer-to-home news, we went to a local bar this week that has spoken word/music on Wednesday nights. One of the guys had some solid, interesting work and was a good performer. I hope to perform there (and at some other places we’ve discovered in our relatively new town) at some point after et cetera et cetera is released so that I can hopefully hock some CDs to the locals.

Other than work, which is keeping me pretty busy, it’s been a rather uneventful week. We’re going to a birthday party this weekend and will probably spend some time on the beach. Oh my, I have such an exciting life.

In the interest of including one thing in this post that (may be) interesting, below is a (short) short story that was published by commonties.com late last year. It’s titled “Going All the Way.” However, they inexplicably changed it to “The Glovebox Tale” (a dreadful title, indeed) when they published it on the site.

Going All the Way

Tommy never had a problem with girls.

It was junior year of high school. He was on the swim team. I was on the sit around alone and play sad songs team. I don’t remember a single week of high school in which Tommy didn’t have at least one girl with him—or waiting to be. My interaction with girls resembled that of a talking horse—it looked like I was saying something, but really I was just trying to get the peanut butter from the top of my mouth.

It was October, the evening after I bought my first car—a blue 1985 Oldsmobile Cutlass Classic. My father found me sitting on the hood playing my guitar.

“There are things you’ll be able to do now, certain freedoms, now that you have your own car,” he said.

He opened the passenger door and climbed in, motioning for me to join him. He took a stick of gum from a pack in his pocket.

“You want a piece,” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“Look,” he said. “You know your mother and I don’t allow you to have girls in your room. Well, there’s no way I can stop you from taking a girl out to the middle of some cornfield somewhere.”

My stomach was bouncing around like a drunken monkey. I kept shouting to myself, “Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god—this is the talk. I can’t believe this is the talk.”

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” he asked.

I nodded. I was tearing skin from the edge of my middle fingernail.

“I guess what I’m trying to say,” he said, “is that I want you to feel comfortable coming to me to get protection—if you need it. I’d much rather give you protection, than see you, you know, get somebody pregnant just because you didn’t have the money, or because you weren’t prepared or something.”

He paused a moment, looking away from me for the first time—focusing on a large shovel dangling from a hook on the front wall of the garage. He was chewing gum like it was an Olympic event, the sound of his smacking mouth echoing in the damp garage.

“Could you give me a hand digging the last post holes for the fence this weekend? We need to get that thing built before the first snow. You know how your mother is.”

I nodded. There were a few moments of silence.

“Yeah,” I said. “Okay. Well, I need to finish. . .”

“Wait,” he said, interrupting. “One more thing.”

He dug into his right hip pocket and pulled out a small blue packet.

“I’m going to go ahead and leave this condom in the glove compartment. If you need more, I’ll take care of it—no questions asked.”

My finger was bleeding. I said nothing. He sort of half-smiled, half-frowned—his mouth stuck in thought—like a man breaking up with a woman might look. He got out and headed for the house. I turned out the light and played a hard one.

Weeks went by. Tommy must have moved through six different girls. I’d learned that many songs. He had fifth period off, so he began a ritual of moving my car from one end of the lot to the other. We’d discovered that the ignition didn’t actually need a key to start it—any straight and strong object would do the trick—and my locks didn’t work. He took advantage of it. Sometimes after school, while he was at swim team practice, I’d spend an hour looking for the car.

It was about this time that my father seemed particularly interested in landing me a girlfriend. At dinner he’d be complaining about Jim so-and-so at work and then, out of nowhere, he’d look at me and say something like, “You know, if you ever want to have somebody over for dinner—your mother and I would love to have her.”

Then he’d go back to Jim so-and-so. I’d always nod and say nothing. My mother would look at me like I’d taken her first-born.

A month went by. Fall became winter. One afternoon, arriving at Tommy’s, I opened his bedroom door to find him making a balloon out of a condom. I laughed and asked him where he’d gotten it.

“Your car,” he said, pinching the air of the oblong balloon.

“What?” I said. “You must be kidding.”

“Nope. There’s been a new one in the glove box every day,”

The latex exploded from the end of his fingers, falling into a small heap on his bed.

“I thought you had extra,” he said, “and when you didn’t say anything. . .”

He interrupted himself.

“How many girls have you slept with this year?” he asked.

He was genuinely curious and jealous—even incredulous. He looked down at the broken condom.

“Look,” he said. “I was a man in need. You know how that chick Trisha is. If it’s a question of money, don’t worry about it. You ever need one—just ask.”

There are 612 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

Ben & Eric Have Lunch

et cetera et cetera update: We’ve finished the tweaks on “omnino” (disc 2), and Josh has done most of the sound editing that still needed to be done on “per se” (disc 1), so we’re getting closer. We finally figured out the track order for “omnino,” which was tricky, but I dig it. Mixing and mastering is next, as well as wrapping up the CD art.

Completely unrelated to anything, the following is a very short and ridiculous one-act that I wrote and posted on my old blog a while ago, but it might as well find its way into the arms of blogger at this point. I couldn’t resist:

Ben & Eric Have Lunch

SCENE: two guys, ERIC and BEN, are having lunch.

ERIC: So I finally washed my car today.
BEN: I don’t care.

[ERIC looks up from his burger, as if he didn’t hear him right]

ERIC: Huh?
BEN: I don’t care.
ERIC: What do you mean?
BEN: I mean I don’t care. I don’t care if you finally washed your balls today. It’s none of
my business.
ERIC: Well, that’s a weird thing to say.
BEN: No, “I finally washed my car today” is a weird thing to say.
ERIC: Why?
BEN: Because nobody cares. Certainly not me.
ERIC: Look. It’s not a big deal. I was just saying...
BEN [cutting him off]: You were just saying that you washed your car today, and I was
just saying that I don’t care.
ERIC: What’s wrong with you, man?
BEN: Shut up and eat your lunch.
ERIC: You shut up!
BEN: Now you’re just being childish.
ERIC: What’s that supposed to mean?
BEN: It means that you’re acting like a child.
ERIC: You’re a dick, man.
BEN: See?
ERIC. See what?
BEN: That’s something a child would say.
ERIC: You’re unbelievable.
BEN: How’s your burger?
ERIC: My burger?
BEN: Yeah. That piece of meat with bread on either side of it. You’re eating it right now.
How is it?
ERIC: Fine. It’s fine. What’s it to you?
BEN: Just trying to make conversation.
ERIC: Well, it’s a little undercooked, actually, and the fries are a little...
BEN [cutting him off]: I don’t care.
ERIC: What?!
BEN: I don’t care.
ERIC: But you just asked me...
BEN [cutting him off]: You should have left it at “fine.” That’s all I need to know.
ERIC: Whatever, man. Fine, then. It’s fine.
BEN: That’s good to hear.
ERIC: How’s yours?
BEN: Delicious.
ERIC: Yeah, they make a good burger, here.
BEN: Yeah. They make a lot of good burgers here. I guess we should get the check.
ERIC: Are you in a hurry?

[BEN gets the waitress’ attention. She comes to the table with the bill and BEN pays her without even looking at ERIC.]

ERIC: You didn’t have to pay for...
BEN [cutting him off]: Forget it. It’s on me.
ERIC: Well, thanks.
BEN: Not a problem.
ERIC: We should do this more often.
BEN: I don’t think so.
ERIC: What?
BEN: I really need to split. I’m finally going to wash my car this afternoon.
ERIC: Really?
BEN: Yeah. It’s been like two months. The thing is filthy.
ERIC: This morning I went to the car wash on 16th and...
BEN [cutting him off]: I don’t care.
ERIC: What?
BEN: I don’t care.
ERIC: You know, you really are a prick. I just wanted to catch up a little, have a nice
lunch, and...
BEN [cutting him off]: I didn’t know it was so important to you.
ERIC: It’s not that...It’s that I...
BEN [cutting him off]: I don’t care.
ERIC: Fuck you, man!
BEN: Now that’s really mature.
ERIC: Seriously, man. What’s your problem?
BEN: That car isn’t going to clean itself.
ERIC: You’re unbelievable.
BEN: That’s what the ladies say.

[BEN leaves the restaurant, gets in his car, and speeds away.

There are 619 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

The Sandwich That Never Was

Good news on the et cetera et cetera CD project: Josh finished the music for the 15th and final song yesterday, so now it’s a matter of mixing and mastering the second CD (and doing a little clean-up on the first (voice only) CD). This has been such a big, ongoing project, so it’s great to see that there’s light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Josh has done an amazing job composing the music for omnino (the name of the second CD), not to mention everything else he’s done (including a ridiculous amount of time) for this project. I can’t wait for everyone within the sound of my voice to hear it (and hopefully love it). I wonder if I could fit in yet another parenthesis in this paragraph (it looks like I can).

Here’s a little ditty that I wrote and posted on my old blog quite a while ago, but it might as well find its way onto blogger at this point:

The Sandwich That Never Was

I was starving more than Kate Moss on. . .well. . .on any day. I had just finished a long night of drinking, so I decided to make a sandwich. I opened the fridge and saw that we had fresh French bread (a rarity in our house), a mound of roast beef (the sandwich meat of choice) from the deli, some respectable ham, a fresh head of lettuce, mayonnaise, mustard, and Colby cheese. It was going to be a feast of epic proportions. I was going to make the biggest sandwich in my short but sordid history.

I like a dill pickle with a sandwich, so I fished one of them out of the jar and meandered into the living room. I turned on the TV to see what was on. It was South Park. The Beefcake episode. It was perfect. I decided to eat the pickle, finish South Park, and then make my delicious sandwich.

That’s the last thing I remember.

I never got to make that sandwich. I passed out on the sofa with the TV on. When I awoke at 5 am, an infomercial about some new abdominal device—I think it was called a Fatassabs Plus—was blaring as if I had been temporarily hearing impaired the night before. I turned off the damn TV and immediately headed for the sweet comfort of our king size bed.

On the way past the kitchen something on the counter caught my eye. It was the roast beef. And the French bread. And the cheese. And the ham. And the lettuce. And the mustard. I had left everything on the counter, and now some of it was most certainly going bad. I hadn’t taken the mayonnaise out of the fridge with the other stuff, though. I don’t really care for mayonnaise, anyway, but at the time it seemed like a good idea.

I tossed everything back in the fridge and headed for the bedroom, reasoning that everything would be alright in the morning. Trouble is—it was morning. And I was hungry. And tired. And hung-over. “Screw the sandwich,” I thought. “I can’t eat a sandwich for breakfast.” So I hopped in my car and drove straight to Taco Bell.

Taco Bell was closed. It wasn’t a 24x7 Taco Bell. It didn’t open until 9 am. I drove home. I was too hungry to sleep, so I turned on the TV and watched some damn infomercial about knives or something. I don’t really remember. I kept hoping the Fatassabs Plus infomercial would come on. It was another modern, completely inessential, American invention. And I wanted it more than anything.

I can be such a miserable prick sometimes.


There are 633 days remaining in Bush’s presidency.

Welcoming Myself

I've just relocated my blog here from diaryland.com...and...um...then from blogit.com. If you're hear because you first visited my site, www.scottsiders.com, thanks for dropping by. If you're hear from browsing blogit.com, thanks for dropping by as well...and why not check out www.scottsiders.com?

I hope to start posting more often, even if it's just to run my mouth about the inane events of my day or my self-righteous comments on the news of the day.

There are 634 days remaining in Bush's presidency.